


A Perfect Halloween

by wanderingoverthewords



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Blood, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Gen, Gore, Murder, Scarecrow's Fear Toxin (DCU), Trick or Treating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-13 21:42:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16480283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderingoverthewords/pseuds/wanderingoverthewords
Summary: So…how does Jonathan Crane celebrate Halloween?





	A Perfect Halloween

**Author's Note:**

> Characters: Jonathan Crane/Scarecrow, the poor unfortunate bastards who cross their path, Bernie; mentions of Batman, the Justice League, Pamela Isley, Edward Nygma, Selina Kyle, Harley Quinn, Harvey Dent, Commissioner Gordon, Harvey Bullock.
> 
> Pairings: None.
> 
> Warnings: spiking food, murder, gore, blood, child harm, kidnapping; implied child death; mentioned cancer, rape, animal death.
> 
> Notes: Halloween night with the Scarecrow. Happy Halloween, y’all!
> 
> All material belongs to DC Comics (although, my interpretations of the characters are used).

It all begins with the house at the end of the street.

It’s quaint and wooden, a sweet little porch and a garden path of paving stones. There’s a pond in the front garden, being one of the few homes in Gotham that offers such things as front gardens; the water is constantly trickling, but there’s no fish to splash around and make it their own. The grass has been tended to nicely; it’s a lovely home, and it belongs to Philip Evans, a kind if somewhat serious man who’s the type to mow the lawn at midnight, if only because that one blade of grass at the back is too tall for his liking, and he doesn’t want to risk cutting it too short.

A young mother leads her four-year-old daughter up to Philip’s porch, pointing excitedly to the plastic pumpkins that have been left by the door and the fake cobwebs that hang from the roof; there’s been a poor effort in decorating, which the little girl obviously knows, as she shows no interest in crummy bits of string and orange plastic.

Her mother ushers her closer and lifts her so she can ring the doorbell all by herself, like a proper grown-up, Mummy says. When they hear the bells chime indoors, she sets her daughter down and takes her hand, watching the door until it opens.

It eventually does - but it isn’t Philip Evans standing there.

The mother’s face falls, confused and alarmed, and she looks the man standing there up and down. “Oh, uh…you’re not Mr. Evans.”

The man chuckles. He’s tall, much taller than her, and he has a beer belly that makes his white shirt and green sweater vest combo a bit unflattering. His hair is grey and he has piercing blue eyes that seem icy when he looks at her. He’s cradling another plastic pumpkin in one arm like a baby, this one hollow and filled to the brim with sweets.

Her little girl doesn’t take notice that this isn’t their neighbour, only goes to her tip-toes to try and observe which sweeties she is about to receive, a childish judgement on whether this house is worth spreading news of.

“No, I’m not, you’re right,” the man says, his accent exceedingly posh; he’s English and he reigns, specifically, from London. “My name is Albert. I’m a friend of Phil’s, just house-sitting for the weekend. He’s gone to visit his mum up north; it’s her birthday this Sunday.”

“Oh,” the mother nods once, “I had no idea. He never said anything…”

“Ah, you know Phil,” Albert waves a hand, “he’s never willing to give details. Probably one of his bloody conspiracy theories; he’ll think everyone’s got dirt on him if he says too much.” He chuckles and the mother shares the moment with him, then he falters as he looks to her daughter and puts his fingers to his mouth. “Oh - pardon my language. I seem to be in the presence of royalty.”

The mother grins and kneels behind her little girl, who gives a grin that’s missing two teeth as she spreads her arms out to give the man a better view of her glittery pink dress, an equally sparkly tiara upon her head. “I’m a princess!”

“So I see,” Albert replies with a grin. He drops to one knee and bows low for her. “Your highness. I wish to bestow upon you,” he holds out the plastic pumpkin, “your treasure.”

The little girl bursts into giggles and looks to her mother for guidance; she receives a nod as silent permission to take the offered goods, which she does so in the form of a greedy handful. Into her own little pumpkin go the sweets, then the costumed girl is bouncing on the balls of her feet as she exclaims, “Thank you, mister!”

Albert raises his head with a smile. “You’re very welcome, your highness.” He gets to his feet with a light hiss of pain and a hand on the doorway, to which the mother’s expression briefly creases with worry, then he wiggles his fingers in a wave. “Happy Halloween, now; stay safe tonight.”

“Thank you,” the mother says, a warm smile on her face as she too stands and takes her daughter’s spare hand again.

They wave to their new acquaintance as they leave his borrowed porch, then they chat animatedly as they walk down the borrowed pathway together, the child already digging into her pumpkin to look through her prize.

Albert smiles after them, then glimpses the sight of a pair of boys who see what the little girl has received from him and turn to each other to discuss the prospect of coming to his house. He shuts the door and waits.

They come to his house seconds later, and he’s greeted by Dracula and Frankenstein, to whom he acts terrified of.

“Please!” He acts out, shutting his eyes and thrusting his plastic pumpkin of sweets toward them. “P-Please, take them, just, please, don’t hurt me!”

The boys laugh loudly and greedily snatch handfuls from the pumpkin, taking a moment to stare in awe at the prized candy.

“You never find these in the store!” The little Dracula exclaims, grinning at the chocolate bar in the gold wrapper. “Thanks, British guy!”

The two boys turn and run back the way they came, and Albert mimes taking a breath to calm himself before he shuts his front door again.

Word soon spreads around the trick-or-treaters that the Englishman in the house down the street has got all the best goods, and Albert finds he’s opening that door every few minutes to more costumed kids. He always reacts to their costumes, begging the monsters not to harm him or bowing before the princesses and princes or requesting a bit of a song from the Disney characters that stop by. At one point, the entire Justice League visit him and he acts excited to see them, proclaiming he’s their biggest fan and asking to shake each of their hands.

Then, a few visits later, he gets the opposite.

When he opens the door, there stands a group of three before him, two boys and a girl.

The girl is dressed in all black, a turtleneck jumper and jeans to replace skin-tight leather. She has little cat ears on her head and swimming goggles over her eyes and on her hands are gloves that resemble cat paws. There’s a fake whip at the waist of her jeans and she has even faker pearls dangled in a too-long necklace around her neck.

The boy to her left is dressed in a green suit with a black shirt. He has a tie that has a question mark on it and a bowler hat that matches, and in one of his little hands is a skinny question mark cane that looks like it’s been made with a mass amount of pipe cleaners. He looks as smug and uptight as the Rogue he’s portraying.

And to the girl’s right -

“Trick-or-treat!”

There’s silence; they don’t get a warm welcome.

Albert is still, staring at the third child intently, a light frown on his face.

The boy stares back from behind his mask, a thing that is crudely stitched together and has papier-mâché filters awkwardly stuck on the front so that it looks like a burlap sack that has been fused with a gas mask. He has a hood that attaches to an old shirt, which is littered with patches and stitches, and clumps of straw have been stuffed into the damages. On his belt are vials of orange liquid.

Albert looks the child up and down and winces in pain, raising his free hand to rub his forehead a bit as his nose wrinkles, trying to ward off the hurting in his head.

_“Hello?”_

Albert blinks rapidly, then looks to the source of the voice; the adult with the group, a man in his forties, presumably the little Catwoman’s father considering their resemblance, is looking at him expectantly, his arms folded.

Albert stares for a moment, then gives his head a little shake as he blinks again. “Sorry,” he says with a chuckle. “Sorry. I was just trying to recall the quickest way to contact the GCPD, since it seems I have a few Rogues on my doorstep!”

The children all grin and he kneels before them all and holds out the pumpkin between them, putting effort into how he trembles before them.

“Oh, I do hope Batman’s making his rounds tonight…” Albert mutters before he gives a fake sniffle and addresses the first child. “Oh, please, don’t ask a riddle of me, Mr. Riddler! I’m terrible at them; please, just take your prize.”

The little Riddler look-alike only grins wider and snatches a handful, then waves his free hand. “You’re excused. I’ll just hafta get you next time!”

Albert nods and wipes his forehead with one hand. “Phew! _Thank you,_ Mr. Riddler.” He turns to address the girl. “And you, Catwoman…well, you’re already such a grand thief. I might as well hand over the goods now!”

The little Catwoman takes her own handful and thanks him cheerfully, dropping the sweets into her own plastic pumpkin before she claws at the air with one paw and meows.

Albert chuckles at her and nods, then turns to the third child. Here, his smile becomes thin and somewhat strained and he stares for a moment into the blue eyes that are peeking out of the mask, then he says, “And you…Scarecrow…why, I’m frightened out of my wits already.”

The little Scarecrow smiles beneath his mask and takes a handful with the hand that isn’t decorated with fake syringes.

Albert stands and smiles at them all, then falters when he catches sight of the bottom of the plastic pumpkin. His face falls and he says, “Aw. Look at that, you’ve cleaned me straight out of any more sweets.” He gives them all a look of fake anger and shakes his fist. “You bunch of crooks! Wait ‘til I tell Batman.”

The children all giggle and look at each other, then to their sweets, then they’re leaving his porch, followed closely by their waving guardian for the night.

Albert waves back, then reaches into his home and collects a sign that he hangs on the knocker of his door, a piece of white wood with the hand-written words ‘NO MORE CANDY - SORRY!’. With that, he retreats back into his borrowed home.

The door is shut calmly behind him, and Albert places the plastic pumpkin on the windowsill. Expression neutral, he turns on his heel and makes his way to the staircase, taking each step carefully.

Once he reaches the top, he takes the seven footsteps needed to get to the bathroom, stepping in and reaching for the string that hangs by the door. With a pull, the bathroom’s light is switched on, and Albert goes to the wide bathtub opposite the door. He leans over and picks up the showerhead that lays behind the taps, its cord wrapped around the faucet, and turns on the tap for the hot water, pulling up a lever that reroutes the water so it will come out of the showerhead instead. Then he kneels and leans over the side of the tub and holds the water over his hair.

It takes a few seconds, but the water that falls from his head begins to turn grey, splashing down into the tub and momentarily leaving coloured marks before the force of the showerhead’s spray leads the colour down the drain. A hand is shoved through his hair to force more of the grey out, revealing the true rust colour. A few streaks of grey on top and at the back of his head don’t leave; they are natural.

When all of the grey dye is finally out, he stands, his head ducked so water won’t drip onto his clothes, and reaches over to turn off the tap. He leaves the showerhead as he’d found it, then grabs a towel from the nearby radiator and scrubs his hair dry.

Leaving the towel around his neck, he reaches into his pocket and brings out a small case, two circular compartments on either end, and sets it down on the windowsill above the sink. He leans down to the nearby mirror and uses one finger to pull his cheek down, forcing his eye open, and uses another finger to gently tap its pad against his eye, snagging the film there. He pulls it off, and his blue eye is now brown.

The contact lens is placed into one compartment in the case, then he does the same with the other contact lens. He seals both compartments, puts the case back into his pocket, then reaches for a washcloth and runs it under the hot tap.

He scrubs at his face, checking it in the mirror every so often to look at the results, then goes back to scrubbing. Soon, the horizontal scar above his left eyebrow is revealed, then the curved scar that follows the lining of the bottom of his right cheek and then, finally, the vertical scar running through the left side of his lips. When these are revealed, he smiles and gives his face another once-over to make sure the concealer is all gone, then he runs the washcloth over his hands to clean them of make-up as well; thus, the scars all across his hands are revealed.

He pulls his shirt out from his trousers and tugs free the padding he’d put under it to form his bulging stomach, revealing that his is much flatter, his ribs just visible beneath his skin. The same is done to the padding stuffed into his shirt sleeves and trouser legs; his real limbs are much more twig-like.

Another case is brought out of his trouser pocket: a glasses case. From that comes a pair of silver-framed, rectangular glasses, which he slips on. Pulling the towel from his neck, he stands up straight and smiles at his reflection.

“And Jonny Crane is back,” says Jonathan Crane, in his regular Southern accent. He chuckles as he folds the towel and sets it on the radiator to dry. “Y’know, Scarecrow, I think I just got a glimpse of what I’m gonna look like in twenty years. Minus the eye colour and added weight, o’ course.”

 _An unfortunate sight, child,_ comes the voice in his head.

“Aw, c’mon. I didn’t look that bad, did I? Already goin’ grey.”

Scarecrow simply replies with a hum, and Jonathan’s face falls slightly.

Scarecrow is angry and Jonathan knows exactly why; he hasn’t forgotten what they’d seen earlier, when those three children had stopped by. His head still feels sore from where Scarecrow had begun screeching in fury in his mind.

It isn’t something to dwell on now, however, for they have a show to watch.

Jonathan leaves the bathroom, descending the stairs at a merry pace, and strides into the kitchen. Humming to himself, he approaches the countertop, where a piece of newspaper has been left out, dampened slightly from where shaky hands had spilled toxin; the few pieces of candy that lay there are the failed attempts, their wrappers soaked and useless to him. He collects up the large syringe, empty save for a few orange drops, and opens the cupboard under the sink, from which he brings out a black bag.

In goes the syringe. The newspaper is crumpled up and tossed inside as well, and the failed attempts are unwrapped and popped into his mouth, eliciting a pleased hum as he chews and tosses the wet wrappers into the bag. With a damp cloth, he wipes down the surface to get rid of any further traces of toxin before throwing that in the bag too. The bag is shut and Jonathan whistles on his way out of the kitchen and into the living room, side-stepping the decoration that hangs in the doorway.

As he passes the hanged man, he pats his leg good-naturedly.

“Keep hangin’ around, Mr. Evans,” Jonathan says. “Bought that rope especially fer you. Be a shame ta waste it.”

Jonathan scans the room quickly, locating which window is best to watch the show, then he sets his bag down by the chosen one and pulls an armchair over from the centre of the room. Adjusting its angle until he is content, he sits down and relaxes, taking a deep breath as he tilts his head back.

Tapping his finger gently against his other hand, Jonathan eyes his bag; it’s a duffel bag and it’s bulging with the amount of supplies in there. Syringes, glass containers, test tubes, little paper packets, his folded-up costume in a plastic package, a change of clothes for later in similar plastic packaging; he has it all.

After a moment, he remembers what he’d meant to do and reaches for the bag again. He opens it and rummages until he finds a notebook, which he flips open to a page marked with a list. He collects a pen and takes off the cap with his teeth before he goes over his list.

_Craft the bombs - x_

_Supplies from Dr. Isley - x_

_Powder in face paint - x_

_Powder in masks - x_

_Get house to lay low in for the trick-or-treaters - x_

_Keep some candy back; fill with new formula to test - x_

_Distribute candy to kids -_

Jonathan draws an x next to the last thing on his list, then taps the pen against his lips thoughtfully. “…Been awful busy lately, haven’t we, Scarecrow?” Jonathan says slowly, receiving a hum in reply. “…Wonder if the Bat will be affected, too.”

 _With any luck,_ Scarecrow says.

Jonathan hums in agreement, looking like he is ready to add onto the point, only to be stopped when a high-pitched screaming erupts from outside the window.

Gaze immediately flicking over to it, Jonathan smirks wickedly. “Here we go, old friend…”

Scarecrow chuckles in return, and Jonathan feels his eagerness as he leans toward the window; Scarecrow is leaning on his shoulder in his reflection, wanting just as good a view as Jonathan gets, even though they share the same eyeballs.

Outside in the street, the little princess who had played the part of Jonathan’s first trick-or-treater is laying on her side, tiny hands grasping at her neat hair as she screams at the top of her lungs, unable to hear her mother’s desperate questions over the monstrous hallucinations of whatever she fears most.

Jonathan would’ve been interested in knowing, if not for the fact that children’s fears are rather predictable. Monsters under the bed, monsters in the closet, spiders, the dark, Mummy and Daddy deciding to give them away, Santa not bringing presents this year; it’s almost sad. Children haven’t yet had the life experience to form greater, more complicated fears; they haven’t buried a seed deep within their brains and let it flourish quite yet. Fear is just going to be another discovery on the long path of their lives - they don’t know the _half_ of it yet.

Another child begins to scream; it’s a good thing he hasn’t wrapped any of that toilet paper of his mummy costume over his mouth, otherwise Jonathan would’ve missed the scream, and that would’ve been wasted effort. As this one collapses to his knees, his mother becomes hysterical and his baby brother begins to cry.

Shame the smaller child doesn’t have enough teeth to have any sweets just yet, that would’ve been a nightmare for the parents.

One by one, children begin screeching bloody murder, sobbing and wailing about monsters and spiders and the dark - see? See! Right there! This is _boring!_ Predictable! This is why he doesn’t use children in his experiments horribly often.

But, hey, nothing is more satisfying than screaming, so he can deal. It’s even more satisfying that he recognises every one of them; he knew he’d gotten the right sweets, all the ones with the most sugar and the best kinds of flavours, all the rarest ones that even he doesn’t see on shelves.

Jonathan sits back in his chair with a contented sigh, shutting his eyes in bliss as he listens. Warms his heart, it does, and he casts a smile over at his reflection in the glass of the window.

“Hear that? The new toxin’s a success. Fast-acting, quicker ‘an before, always a good thing. Course, I’ll hafta test it on adults next, but…” He sniffs and adds, “Faster than the powder, by the looks of it - which means I win our little bet.”

He expects a disgruntled grumble, but Scarecrow simply hums again, and Jonathan is made aware of his mood once more.

Jonathan feels slightly awkward, he drums his fingers on the arm of the chair and thinks on it.

Scarecrow has never liked other people dressing as him; Jonathan is the only one who is allowed. They get it every year, idiots who think the Rogues are appropriate costumes to dress themselves and their children in, even dumber idiots who think _he’s_ an appropriate costume. It’d been slightly embarrassing earlier, seeing kids dressed as Edward and Selina; he doesn’t doubt that Selina would’ve loved to see a little girl with her likeness, but Edward would’ve judged, if only because one can’t get more perfect than the original. Besides that, he would’ve complained about them using an older version of his outfit.

Jonathan smirks; he hopes that boy has been treating Edward’s little catchphrase as a chant tonight, and he hopes Edward can sense others making use of ‘Riddle me this’ - he’s never liked other people saying it, much less a child who treats him as a monster to dress as for Halloween.

But Scarecrow’s likeness being used? Well, that’s just not funny at all. Props to the child for using a newer design (though Jonathan’s own needle glove had been lost to him ages ago), but still not something to feel flattered by. Not at all; that child has no idea what he’s done, and Jonathan can’t be held responsible for a child’s stupidity.

He ceases his thinking for a moment to look out at the terrified children again, allowing himself to bask in it, before he catches sight of a child that isn’t screaming and watches them; they’re dressed as Batman, ironically, and they look out at the other children in confusion. They’re with their guardian and Jonathan goes to observe her reaction too -

It is as soon as Jonathan’s eyes have locked on this particular figure that Scarecrow suddenly begins screeching again, a noise of pure, tranquil fury, and Jonathan gives a sharp cry of pain as his head feels as though it explodes, hands coming up to grasp at his hair.

Against his will, he breathes in deeply through his nostrils and his pupils shrink, his expression shifts into one of deadly rage, and Scarecrow shoves the armchair back as he rises from it, jabbing a finger in the direction of the teenaged girl dressed in straw and burlap.

“SHE WEARS MY _SKIN,_ CHILD!!” Scarecrow screams, his voice deeper and gruffer than Jonathan’s.

Another inhale brings Jonathan back into their body’s pilot seat.

He looks to his left and brings his hand up in a calming gesture. “Calm _down,_ Scarecrow -”

_“NO!”_

Scarecrow returns so quickly, it shocks even Jonathan.

He looks to his right and jabs his finger toward the girl again. “She wears my skin, child! My _SKIN!_ She wears it, flaunts it, makes it ‘er own! I will not have that, child, I will not _HAVE IT!”_ He hits the window with the side of his fist rather than the knuckles, unconcerned with whether it gets the attention of people outside or not. “They’re makin’ a fool of me, child, and I am not ta be made a FUCKIN’ _FOOL OF!”_

With that, there comes a hidden threat, even a promise, and Scarecrow spins on his heel and begins charging toward the doorway; he doesn’t get halfway across the room when a sharp inhale brings Jonathan back. The change is so sudden, the body stumbles backwards as Jonathan yanks it free from Scarecrow’s path.

Arms flail and Jonathan catches himself on the armchair; with one quick swipe of the hand, he rights the hair that flops over his eyes with the movement, then he jabs his own finger to a blank spot in the air and his expression is far deadlier than anything Scarecrow - with all his fury, being made from the anger of Jonathan’s childhood - could ever muster.

“Yer makin’ a damn _fool_ of yerself right _now!”_ Jonathan snaps, his volume rising until he’s shouting right back. “Now, you listen ta me and you listen well, old friend: you will _not_ ruin this fer me. I will _not_ have my Halloween compromised just because you can’t control your damned _temper!_ I’ve spent _far_ too long on this plot,” he counts off on his fingers, “spent fuckin’ _months_ gathering supplies, creatin’ the toxin, breaking inta every factory and fuckin’ _costume shop_ ta taint the face paints and masks with powder, even stealin’ chemicals from Poison Ivy ‘erself just for the grand finale! And I will _NOT_ have my hard work soiled by _YOU_ OF ALL PEOPLE!” He pants through gritted teeth once he’s done.

Scarecrow falls silent in his mind; he feels the Strawman’s embarrassed recoil, the way Scarecrow knows he’s crossed a line.

There are few times that Jonathan Crane will shoot his second personality and only friend down so quickly; any time he does, Scarecrow knows he’s gone too far. He still remembers when he’d cost Jonathan his teaching job, when Jonathan had punched the mirror Scarecrow had shown himself in and had ignored his hallucination of a chum for a whole year - the year he spent crafting fear toxin for the first time.

Jonathan had only acknowledged him when Scarecrow had forced himself into the pilot seat to save Jonathan from the authorities after the escape from Ace Chemicals had been botched (and that had been to scold him, not thank him) and when Jonathan had been dosed up on his first successful batch of toxin and had been screaming and sobbing for Scarecrow to help him. The second incident had led to a heartfelt conversation when Jonathan had sobered, but things had continued to be rocky until the plan to find work at Arkham Asylum had been approved by both personalities.

The most awkward yet heartbreaking arguments are the ones you have with the second personality you developed when you were ten, and they are not ones to be repeated.

Jonathan glares in a general direction for a moment - the corner, he decides, will be the Scarecrow Corner - before he straightens himself up, slowly walks back to the armchair and half-circles it to take his seat again. He pulls the chair forward again before he settles, elbows on the arms and fingers making an arch that he presses to his lips, then he speaks gravely, “…If I am ta be compromised t’night, it will be by the Bat and nobody else. Least of all _you.”_

Scarecrow doesn’t reply. The feeling he puts in Jonathan’s mind is similar to static. He’s shuffling uncomfortably; Jonathan can see it in his reflection in the window’s glass. Scarecrow is at his right side and he’s shuffling uncomfortably; he hates when he and Jonathan fight.

Truthfully, so does Jonathan.

To soothe the tension, Jonathan sits back and says, “You’ll get yer turn tonight, old friend. Just, first…let me enjoy my favourite show.”

To this, Scarecrow gives a hum of agreement.

 

…

 

“Well, I _would’ve_ stayed longer, but you know how Dad is. He’s got me on a curfew; if I don’t get home when he says, I’m royally screwed, trust me.”

Tiffany walks briskly down the narrow alleyway path, phone pressed to her ear and best friend’s voice replying to hers. She listens to her as she walks, boots thudding lightly on the path beneath her feet, her steps creating little ripples in the puddles still lurking within the gaps between the stones. It always seems wet in Gotham’s alleyways, like the sun can’t reach these spaces over the tall buildings and the protruding darkness.

She doesn’t think much of it, other than that it is a bit of an inconvenience.

“Hey, don’t blame me. I had to take my little brother trick-or-treating - you know that. Mom and Dad never want to take him, so they always push the job onto me…I know, I saw it too. I dunno, I figured it was just kids messing around, but their parents all seemed kind of…worried, y’know? I dunno - I just wanted to hurry to the party, I guess I didn’t really stop to ask questions. Maybe I should’ve…”

Something rattles behind her and Tiffany flinches into a stop. Her blood runs cold and the freezing grip of fear’s hand tightens around her stomach, but she finds it in herself to turn around and look at the source of the noise.

There’s nobody behind her, only empty space and chilled air, and her eyes search the darkness as she tries to find movement. There is none, everything is still, but she does find that there is a trash can a little further down the path; it’d definitely been the metal that had rattled, and she gives it a weary look before reasoning that it must’ve been an alley cat. God knows, Gotham’s got plenty of those, despite Catwoman’s best efforts.

With this in mind, she turns and continues on her way, speaking into her phone, “Sorry - I thought I heard something…Nah, I’m okay, promise. It was just a cat. Honestly, with how the streets are tonight, it’s quicker to walk than get a taxi…Relax, I’ve walked this route tons of times before, I’ll be fine.”

She carries on walking; despite her fear, she doesn’t adjust her pace, quite happy to continue the brisk stroll she’d had before the spook, and finds distraction in her conversation with Abbey.

“Yeah, well, she’s a bitch. What?! It’s true! You heard what she said at lunch last Wednesday. I mean, seriously, who the hell makes a joke about someone’s sister having cancer? That’s wrong on so many levels…I don’t care if her dad’s just died, that doesn’t give her a reason to be such a -”

Glass shatters behind her and Tiffany shrieks in fright, jumping metaphorically out of her skin and literally a foot in the air, stumbling backwards once her feet find the ground again. She’s immediately whirling around to look at the damage; there’s shards on the ground by the wall on her left, some lodges in the gaps between the bricks, some manages to get free and fall to join their brethren.

Tiffany stares at the damage, breath picking up until she’s deeply, slowly panting, then she spins around in the direction it must’ve been thrown from.

There’s nobody there; the alleyway is too narrow and too long for them to have just disappeared like that without her noticing. This fact only makes Tiffany’s heart pound in her chest and she starts to raise her shaking hand to her ear to tell her friend what has just happened when there comes another crash up ahead, and she yelps and looks over.

The dumpster beyond the left side’s upcoming opening into the street is wiggling; something is moving around inside of it, it’s too dark over there to see what, and fear is what keeps Tiffany glued to the spot, staring at it, her arms slowly rising to try and protect herself. A feeble attempt, but all she can manage when her mind is spinning with so many theories on what could be in there.

Her shaking hand tries to bring her phone to her ear again, the words of ‘help’ and ‘call the police’ on her tongue but they aren’t voiced and are simply stuck there when fright takes them and pushes them back down to stop them from escaping. She can distantly hear Abbey calling her name, trying to reach her, but she can’t bring herself to reply.

A thousand images pass through her mind’s eye, a thousand possibilities of what’s about to happen to her, of being murdered or raped or kidnapped, and the dumpster shakes some more before -

Tiffany sucks in some air and lets it out as a relieved sigh; a man in a grimy hoodie looks at her briefly over the top of the dumpster before he’s looking back to his own belongings. A few sheets of cardboard, freshly pulled from the trash, are clutched in his gloved hands and are deposited into something Tiffany can’t see; a second later, she finds it’s a shopping trolley, which he’s just pushed into view.

He looks at her again, clearly mistaking her fear for judgement, and she puts a hand to her chest as she takes a few steps toward him, joining him on the other side of the opening, briefly walking through light and back into darkness.

“No - I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…I just got a little spooked, is all,” she says with a smile to soothe the tension.

He nods; he has a rugged beard and a blue and red beanie hat on his head. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“No, no, really, it’s fine. Here, why don’t I…?” She trails off, reaching for the purse on her belt to pull out a few notes.

His hands go up to try and deny the action, but she gives the notes a little shake to insist he take them, and he thanks her with a kind smile and a nod. There’s a mutual want of a hug between them, but neither make a move without the other doing so first, and so the money is given over with nothing more than smiles and good manners.

Tiffany watches the man pass her and go to the opening, taking that pathway back out into the street. She waves to him as he wheels his trolley out, both of them smiling, and then he turns the corner and he’s gone.

She’s proud of herself for her generosity and ability to talk to the stranger that had just frightened the shit out of her, and she raises her phone to her ear, “Sorry, Abbey,” she turns from watching that direction and goes to return in her own, “listen, I -”

A step forward brings her face-to-chest with a figure dressed in burlap and old fabric.

Tiffany gasps loudly and her phone falls from her hand, clattering against the stone once it lands, and she stares at the person, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. Language is lost to her once more, sweat breaking out on her skin as fear once again grips her and sends ice through her veins, and she stammers, “I - I - I - W-Who…”

The figure suddenly pushes a foot forward, not as a step, but as a stomp, and her phone is crushed beneath the boot that slams upon it.

She hears the screen shatter and the plastic crack, but does nothing but tremble before them.

They tilt their head slowly; Tiffany can’t see their eyes through the tinted lenses of the gas mask and burlap sack fusion.

“…You wear my skin, but do not know my face?”

There’s a moment of silence, in which Tiffany wonders if she is supposed to reply, then the figure raises a hand.

“How disappointing.”

Before she can even see the hand, something is sprayed into her face and Tiffany rears back, coughing into one hand as her lungs feel like they’re being squeezed by God’s hand and her brain feels fuzzy. She tries to fight the feeling of drowsiness that suddenly takes hold of her, but it’s too much and her eyelids droop. She feels herself sway, then everything goes black.

She’s caught by her attacker, their arm around her waist, and they check her pulse with two fingers pressed to her neck. With a hum, they fling her up onto their shoulder, where she dangles as they carry her further into the darkness.

 

…

 

The first thing Tiffany sees upon awakening is her own lap. Her neck is sore, her head hurts and her hair dangles in front of her face just low enough to make her nose itch as the strands tickle the end. She wiggles her nose to try and relieve the itch before she tries to reach for it instead, to use her fingernails; she very quickly learns she’s unable to, for her arms are tied behind her.

Her heart immediately begins to pound in her chest and Tiffany’s head rises quickly, despite the nausea that’s settled in the pit of her gut, and her head only aches more with the sudden movement, but it’s something she finds easy to ignore in the moment. She looks around at her surroundings, breath picking up as she recognises the sight of piled crates in the dim lighting; she’s in a warehouse.

The room is cold - she shivers beneath her burlap - and she can smell the damp more than she can feel it, but there’s another scent that’s there and this one makes her gag. It isn’t the fusion of the damp and this scent that gets her, no - it’s this one alone, but she can’t place her finger on what it is.

Burnt…something. Something’s been burning.

“Ah. Yer awake, finally.”

Tiffany, panting as the fear envelopes her, looks toward the voice.

“He was startin’ ta get…impatient, ya see.”

A figure has appeared before her - she theorises it’d been standing behind the crates piled opposite her - and it’s dressed head to toe, she can see no skin. It’s a man, she’s sure; it had definitely been a man’s voice and she sees no sign of breasts. A man, then - a man who is dressed in old fabric that’s littered with patches and stitches, who wears a mask that is half-sack and half-gas mask, who has ropes wrapped around his wrists and ankles and diagonally around his torso in a second belt, whose fingers look clawed because of gloves and who has straw sticking out of his clothing, just like hers. He’s wearing burlap, just like she is.

Tiffany’s heart plummets and her eyes widen to the point of pain; the chains keeping her bound to the chair rattle as she trembles. “You…You’re…You’re him. Y-Y-You’re the real…the real Scarecrow…”

Scarecrow regards her closely, giving a mere tilt of the head, then he speaks slowly from within his mask, “…He’s present, yes.”

Tiffany questions the logic of referring to one’s self in the third person before she not only reminds herself that this is a certified maniac who drugs people for fun, but also that he’s killed people and so she will do well to keep her mouth shut. She does, even as he reaches for his own head and pulls down the hood of his costume, then pinches the burlap of his mask and brings that from his head too.

The Scarecrow has ginger hair and dark eyes and there’s a look on his face that she finds tricky to decipher for a moment, but then she recognises it. As a girl from a family who keeps chickens, she knows it; he is regarding her the same way her father regards the chickens: with pity. The Scarecrow knows something she doesn’t, just like Daddy dear knows something the chickens don’t.

She only hopes she won’t be getting her head chopped off like them.

There’s tears on her cheeks before she’s even thinking of crying and she shakes her head pitifully, giving Scarecrow further reason to pity her. “Please…Please, let me go. I won’t tell anyone, I swear. I swear I won’t, nobody will know, please, please, let me go, I just want to go home, please…”

“Home?” The Rogue speaks. He shakes his head. “If you wanted ta go home, child, you would’ve thought twice about yer costume.”

“My…My…?” Tiffany looks down at herself.

She’s dressed like him, an old version of him, back when he had a hat and didn’t have ropes around his waist and ankles and wrists. It’s the version she has the best picture of, taken from an old issue of the Gotham Gazette. She’d neglected the mask, even if that’s the thing everybody sees on the news nowadays; they never show the Scarecrow without his mask on. Seems like the only people who have seen his face are his victims and Batman; seeing the Scarecrow’s face, in some way, seems like a bad omen.

“Running around with our image,” Scarecrow goes on, “thinking it best to roam the dark streets of Gotham dressed like that.” He raises an arm and points to her. “Why…yer more deluded than I am, child.”

She’s offended him. The realisation makes her swallow a lump in her throat and shake her head, more tears flowing down her cheeks.

“Please, I…I was gonna take it off! I was heading home, just now! Please, I’ll take it off, you’ll never see it again, I swear! Please, please, I’m sorry…”

“I mean,” Scarecrow adds, “walkin’ through the alleyways? In Gotham? On Halloween _night?_ Alone? That’s just stupid. Yer a very stupid girl, you know that? It was Grade A Bad Horror Movie type o’ stupid.” He pauses, then huffs and shakes his head, hanging it. “And we’re the big, bad monster - y’see?!” He lifts his head suddenly. “Y’see what you’ve done? You’ve stuck us in a bad horror movie.” He puts a hand to his chest, frowning deeply at her now. “We’re in a bad horror movie. Y’know how insultin’ that is? That’s insulting.”

Oh, Christ, she’s offended him even more.

She resists the instinct to tell him she ranks second in her preferred classes and instead sniffles and trembles against her chains. His expression doesn’t change, and that only makes her more scared; the Scarecrow is truly without a heart.

(Someone, rewrite The Wizard of Oz.)

“I…I…P-Please…”

“And what’s worse,” Scarecrow wanders over to her casually, eyeing her costume critically, “is that this isn’t even a _good_ replica of our old look.” He bends at the waist, observing her closely. “You’ve used…pen ink for the stitches on your face, didn’t even bother with a mask. The hat’s all wrong, there’s too _much_ burlap (ironically) and,” he looks distastefully down at her legs, “I never showed that much…skin.”

She sniffles. It’s true, she substituted the trousers for a skirt. Still, in the Scarecrow’s fashion, it’s covered in stitches and has a tuft of straw sticking out of the side, but it’s certainly not something the real one would wear.

He looks truly disgusted at it; she tries to rectify it. “It - It’s just…I-I’m a girl, so…so I figured -”

“What? That you can’t wear pants?” Scarecrow looks at her face, frowning still. “Oh, my…Child, Harley and Dr. Isley would have a field day with you.”

“I-I…” She swallows thickly and finds her words. “I-I put it on _because_ you’re scary! I-I swear, I didn’t mean to insult you, I-I’m _sorry…!”_

Scarecrow chuckles. “Flattery doesn’t stuff this straw, child. But thank you. Yer compliment is not needed, yet it is appreciated.” He straightens up again and whistles nonchalantly as he returns to the crates he’d stood by, setting a hand on one as he bends to retrieve something from behind the pile.

The first item he picks up is long and thin and ends in a curved blade; Tiffany lets out a wretched sob as the scythe is propped up against the stack of crates. It’s tricky to see in the dim lighting, but there’s blood splattered across the blade.

Scarecrow runs a finger along the blade, then plucks a hair from his head and flicks it over the blade’s edge. It’s obviously cut in half, for he hums in impressed delight and strokes a finger along the blade again.

When he reaches behind the crates this time, it is to retrieve a red, plastic container.

Tiffany licks her lips to bring moisture back to them as she blinks through her tears, then she shakily asks, “What’s that…?”

“That?” Scarecrow points to it, then sets it down before her. “That’s fer you.”

“F-For me…?”

“Mm-hm. Scarecrow never cleans up his messes, so I have to.” He cocks his head. “It’s fuel, child.”

“Fuel…”

Scarecrow nods; his smile thins and his eyebrows rise, the expression one uses when talking to a dumb child (which, to him, she is). “Gasoline.” He reaches into a pouch on his second belt and wiggles the box of matches at her.

Tiffany lets out another sob at the implication; fresh tears pour down her cheeks and she ducks her head, trying to retain her nerves. She remembers the blood on the scythe, makes the link, then peeks at him from under her hair. “Oh, God…then that _smell…”_

“Is the one before you, yes,” Scarecrow says with a nod. “Like I said, Scarecrow never cleans up his messes. But, don’t worry, they were jus’ another fool who thought it funny ta dress as Scarecrow.” He shakes his head, then shrugs and rolls his eyes heavenwards. “Kids these days, am I right?”

“Oh, _God…!”_ Tiffany squeezes her eyes shut and hides behind her hair, then retches into her own lap, vomit threatening to spill from her throat, burning it.

“Hey, hey, don’t throw up, now. You’ll just make the smell worse. An’ don’t worry, he wasn’t alone; we acknowledge it wasn’t _just_ his fault, so Scarecrow thought it justice to go an’ get the parents too. Wasn’t lonely, don’t you worry.”

Tiffany sobs quietly to herself, mourning lives she most likely never knew, mourning her lost chance of survival; globby, black tears roll down her cheeks, stealing the mascara from her eyelashes and smudging it on her skin. She wiggles against her chains, trying to find where they might give, but there’s nothing like that. They’re bound tight, padlocked and everything, and she has to come to the bitter realisation that she will not escape this one.

“Please…P-Please, I won’t tell anyone - I _swear._ Nobody will find out, not the GCPD, not even Batman…! If - If you could just -”

She’s cut off when Scarecrow suddenly bursts into laughter; it’s so hard, he throws his head back and projects it to the ceiling. She can’t decide if she should compare it to the warm laughter of her father and his friends at the pub or the cold cackle of any depiction of Victor Frankenstein. Scarecrow’s laughter sounds like both, and it’s just _wrong._

“Ohhh, child,” he says, voice wobbling with the last of a chuckle, he’s practically cooing at her, “Batman _always_ finds out. Once the crime is committed, it’s only a matter of time! That’s the fun bit: the waiting.” He nods twice, knowingly. “He’ll know. He’ll know yer dead,” (Tiffany lets out a whimper) “when he’s askin’ yer mother, ‘So, ma’am…what costume did your daughter wear last night?’ and she replies, ‘Why…she dressed up like that Scarecrow fella.’.” He snaps his fingers. “And _that’s_ when he’ll know, child, _that’s_ when he’ll know! Cause he knows…Scarecrow doesn’t like it when other folk dress up as him. Only me, child, only me.”

Despite the fear that’s turned her veins icy hot and has her stomach flipping over and over, Tiffany is confused. Why does he keep referring to himself in the third person? She’s heard that Two-Face tends to call himself ‘we’, which is to be expected from someone with his…condition, but Scarecrow? Why does Scarecrow do it? And why is she trying to find reason in anything a mentally unstable man does?

“I, personally, see nothin’ wrong with it. Usually,” he adds as an afterthought, with a distasteful glare her way. “Whatchu were sayin’ is right, child: we’re scary. An’ people dress as us because we’re scary and so they spread the message (not that it _needs_ ta be spread by others). But, then…folk like you come along, an’ you change designs and smile and wave at the folks who recognise the inspiration fer yer little outfit. You humour the kids who dress up like the Bat and his bird and you laugh with yer friends and drink bad punch at a Halloween party…all while wearing our look.” He jabs a finger at her. “And _that,_ child…that’s when I can’t stand it. If you’d been willing to celebrate Halloween the _correct_ way, I might’ve let it slide…” He cocks his head. “But, then…Scarecrow is a different story…”

Tiffany frowns, truly confused now. For just a moment - for one, short, stupid moment - her confusion overtakes her fear and, sniffling, with thick tears still flowing down her cheeks, she asks, “…W-Wait…are you…not the real Scarecrow…?”

The man’s gaze flicks back to her and he regards her with a look she can’t decipher this time. It isn’t happy or sad or angry or much of anything.

“…Oh,” he nods slowly and turns his back on her just as slow, “I am. And…I’m not.” He clears his throat, then tilts his head. “Scarecrow, old friend…she’s all yours.” He takes his mask from his rope belt and slowly lifts it, hovering it before his face. “Be a gentleman, now. Treat ‘er special.”

With that, he slips his mask over his head, pulling his hood up a second later. There’s a slow, loud inhale of breath from beneath his mask, sucked in through his nose, then his shoulders tense, there’s a sharp growl, then silence.

Tiffany waits. She’s anxious, she’s terrified, she wants to go home, but she waits. If she’s lucky, death will be swift or maybe it won’t come at all. Maybe Batman will swoop down and save her, Scarecrow had said it would be a matter of time. Maybe time is on her side, maybe she’ll be saved.

She waits, but she’s confused. Why is he just standing there? She doesn’t want him to move, but the fact that he hasn’t is just as scary as when he was speaking. Now, he’s a statue; it’s only worse now because she can’t see his face.

Tiffany knows it’s a stupid idea - she really does this time - but…she finds it in herself to speak, “…I -”

Scarecrow rips the scythe from its slant and spins around in a blur of brown and red and he’s in front of her before she even knows it and he’s raising the scythe high above his head -

“NO, PLEASE, DON’T -”

She doesn’t even finish her own sentence, she cuts into a scream as the blade comes down upon her.

The next portion of time is filled with sounds.

There’s the blood-curdling screaming from the girl as she’s ripped apart; there’s the squelching of damaged, wet flesh as the scythe’s blade is plunged in and slices; there’s the distant swishing sounds as the scythe is swiped through the air; there’s the light spits of blood on wooden crates when it’s sprayed; there’s metal clanging on concrete when Scarecrow swipes too hard and the blade impales her instead of mere stabbing; there’s the gurgling when Scarecrow finally cuts her throat; there’s the relaxed humming Scarecrow gives out when the adrenaline dies and he’s taking to cutting her like a child takes to filling in a colouring book.

 _“Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,_  
_Humpty Dumpty had a great fall,_  
_All the king’s horses an’ all the king’s men_  
_Couldn’t put Humpty tagether again…”_

When Jonathan returns, he stands before a bloody mess. There’s shreds of burlap and fabric coated in red and the hat’s been cut into three pieces and there’s bits of limb and chunks of meat and Scarecrow had actually carved out her liver at one point, which is impressive considering it’s Scarecrow. He usually doesn’t leave the organs intact.

There’s blood splattered across the lenses of Jonathan’s mask and so he reaches up and removes the sack and gas mask fusion without pulling down the hood, taking a moment to look down at himself to find his costume is also darkened with the stains of liquid life. It isn’t so bad; the colour of his shirt is doing well to hide it, but the same can’t be said for the trousers. He ignores the stains for now and looks again to the remains.

Jonathan stares, blinks twice, then slowly cocks his head as he observes the severed one before him. He thinks the expression is frozen in a scream, judging by the open mouth and jutting eyeballs - one of which is halfway out and pointing its gaze to the ground - but he can’t quite tell, if only because -

“Ohhh,” Jonathan finally says with understanding, bobbing his head slowly. “I get it. She stole yer face, so you stole hers right back.” He looks to the limp bit of fleshy skin nearby, then he scoffs out a chuckle. “That’s almost poetic. Have my readings been softening yer old, straw heart, Scarecrow?”

 _No heart ta soften, child,_ Scarecrow replies. _Just experimentin’ with a little equivalency, is all._

Jonathan chuckles, then sets the bloodied scythe down to reach for the container of fuel instead. He brings it over and sits it beside the mess, then claps his hands once and nods. “Okay. So, that’s done - you’ve had yer fun, yeah?”

Scarecrow hums a thoughtful hum; he’s pondering his answer, considering his options, and Jonathan waits patiently.

_…There could be more._

Jonathan sucks in a breath. “There could be, yer right. You wanna go look?”

_Mmhmmmmmmm._

Jonathan nods. “Alright. So, I’ll deal with this (since ya never clean up after yerself, c’mon, now) an’ then we’ll go see if there’s more people stupid enough to wear yer face. Alright?”

_Mmhm._

“And then…”

_Hm?_

A thin but delighted smile takes its place upon Jonathan’s face; he looks positively giddy. “I saw a couple o’ haunted houses on our way here. How ‘bout you an’ me go pretend ta be actors in ‘em fer a bit, ‘fore we head home?”

Scarecrow cackles in sadistic glee, making Jonathan’s smile become a wide grin that holds a more childish delight. They’re both equally as excited, and Scarecrow is still chuckling as he says, _Yer mind is beautiful, Jonny._

Jonathan chuckles, then snatches up the container of fuel and begins splashing it over the remains before him.

 

…

 

An hour later, Jonathan steps out of the back door of a haunted house, smirking at the screaming behind him as he enters an alleyway and slams the door shut. He removes his mask and takes a deep breath, sucking in some of the cold air of Halloween night, ignoring the foul stench of the alleyway.

As he absorbs the screams behind him, he smirks and glances over his shoulder, then says to his second personality, “I _think_ …I may have accidentally leaked the rest of the toxin, old friend.” He raises his right arm and rolls up the sleeve to reveal the canister strapped to his arm; the cap is dangling from the opening, and Jonathan gives a fake gasp as he slaps his other hand to his mouth. “Oopsie…!”

Scarecrow cackles loudly as Jonathan grins in return, then he’s reaching behind the nearest dumpster to retrieve the duffel bag he’s left there. He unzips it and reaches inside, digging through until he finds the change of clothes that he’s stashed.

He changes in the alleyway, not particularly worried about being caught. Instead of putting his costume back in his duffel bag, he wraps it in its packaging and straps it to his belly beneath his shirt with its own ropes, just in case something happens on the walk home. Only the boots make it into the bag, and Jonathan straightens out his clothes.

He’s picked to wear what he calls his ‘fancy threads’ tonight: a white button-up that fits him nicely, despite how skinny he is, under a black tie and a black waistcoat that has a grey, silk back. There’s equally black slacks and a belt that shines and shoes that are pointed lightly at the toe, which he’s polished just for tonight. He smoothes his hair out before reaching for his trusted luggage again.

He digs under the rest of his supplies for the mound of fabric that has been substituting for the bag’s bottom all this time, pulling it out while trying to make sure no items fall from the container. Finally, he manages, and he holds the black trench coat up before himself to check it for toxin stains or tears, then he slips it on. It isn’t his preferred coat - the one that had once been a part of Scarecrow’s costume is; he had repaired it some time ago after purposefully ripping it to hell to make it look creepy and wears it on a regular basis, the tattered old thing with its stitches and little bits of straw sticking out of it - but this one will do better as a disguise.

Another reach inside and he has a black fedora, which he has to push back up into its original shape, for it had been crushed under the weight of everything else. One would think the old trench coat and fedora look to be obvious, but this is Gotham - everyone dresses like this in Gotham. Jonathan will blend right in.

He pops the fedora onto his head, straightens himself up, then hangs the bag on his shoulder. In retrospect, he should’ve chosen a better way of carrying his things, perhaps set up some spots around Gotham to stash items, but oh, well. This will have to do.

Content with himself, certain he’s got everything in order, Jonathan sets off home.

It’s a long walk to his house, but he’s fine with it, particularly tonight.

Jonathan keeps his head down as he walks, unable to help the smirk that tugs at his lips as screams puncture the air around him. Naturally, most of them belong to children; the ones of those who wear tainted masks and face paints are clearer and more refined, some laying on the ground as Jonathan passes them, their concerned parents rushing through questions and pleads for someone to help.

One grabs at his coat and begs for assistance, for him to call an ambulance, but he kicks them away without looking and keeps walking.

The muffled screams are the ones inside homes; they belong to those who have finally bit into their sweets, whose excitement at the prospect of sugar has turned into fears from deep within their brains. Children’s fears continue to be boring, but boring fears are better than no fears at all.

Jonathan thinks this bitterly, but it doesn’t take the smirk from his face as he walks amongst the afraid.

He passes over Gotham’s border and enters its outskirts, walking up the long road into the middle of nowhere, where a single wooden shack sits in the distant. It’s dishevelled and desolate beyond belief, damaged and damp and - quite frankly - disgusting, but it’s where Jonathan calls home.

It’s still but a shape in the distance when Jonathan pauses his walking and turns around to look out at the city he’s just left, and his smirk stretches at one end as he reaches into his coat pocket.

“Time fer the grand finale, old friend,” he says quietly, glancing at the open air out of the corner of his eye, and Scarecrow hisses in excitement as he holds up the silver remote, thumb hovering over the red button atop it.

He waits a few moments, observes the city, takes a moment to revel in the distant screams.

“Happy Halloween, y’all.”

Jonathan clicks the button with his thumb.

Across Gotham, the pumpkins explode, one at a time in quick succession, chunks flying everywhere and flames roaring up from the unsuspecting and disturbed candles inside lovingly-prepared jack-o-lanterns, and orange guts splatter over porches and nearby owners and gas spews from the carcasses of every single one of them.

Earlier in the month, Jonathan Crane had turned every single one of them into fear toxin bombs, crafting the countless explosives himself, carving into the very skin of the fruits to implant the little things, then using a plant growth formula stolen from Poison Ivy (treated as medicine for her precious _babies_ when they’re harmed by the Bat) to make sure the holes had sealed over so the bombs would be undetectable and the pumpkins had healed, if only to give their lives weeks later.

In the distance, the screaming increases as now even adults get a shot; he imagines people swarming the streets, all screeching about whatever keeps them up at night, while the likes of Commissioner Gordon and Harvey Bullock rush around and try and calm people and bark orders to officers and avoid the oncoming scurry of terrified civilians.

It only makes Jonathan cackle in sheer glee, throwing his arms up as he revels in what he’s done; his head is hurting from the volume of Scarecrow’s own laughter, but it’s ignored in favour of delight.

“THAT’S IT, GOTHAM!” Jonathan screams in response to theirs. “SCREAM FER ME!! LET ME LISTEN TA YOUR FEAR!! LET ME FALL ASLEEP TO THE LULLABY THAT IS YOUR FRIGHT!! LET ME HAVE A _PERFECT_ HALLOWEEN!!”

A sharp inhale through the nose, and Scarecrow gives his own celebration.

“BOW BEFORE YER LORD AN’ MASTER, GOTHAM!! BOW BEFORE THE MASTER OF FEAR, THE GOD OF FRIGHT!! BOW, AN’ REMEMBER THAT THE SCARECROW KNOWS NO MERCY!!”

Both personalities cackle and shriek with laughter together, their shared throat raw once they’ve finished, then it is Jonathan who spins on his heel and walks the rest of the path up to his broken abode.

He ascends the steps of his porch - missing the second, he still hasn’t fixed it - and produces a key from his pocket to unlock the door, then he’s whipping that open and proclaiming, “Honey, I’m home!”

There’s only silence in the household as Jonathan stands in his decrepit living room, the mouldy and broken furniture cold and uninviting, the dust and cobwebs sweeping up with the door’s sudden movement.

Then comes a distant squeaking and the cold look in Jonathan’s eyes fades, his wicked grin drops in favour of a warm smile and he shuts and locks the door behind him and drops his bag as he directs a dewy-eyed look to the tiny figure on his coffee table.

A small, brown mouse stands there, a fraction missing from her right ear and her nose constantly twitching as she rises up and sniffs at the air Jonathan brings with him, in search of food. He had left her with some - as he always does when he goes out on a job, just in case he’s sent to Arkham and can’t take care of her - but Bernie is nothing if not gluttonous.

Jonathan chuckles and removes his fedora, walking over and setting it on the coffee table beside Bernie, who rushes to sniff at it in case it’s something to eat, then she looks up at him with the best ‘hey, what gives?’ look that a mouse can muster.

He chuckles again and shrugs off his coat. “Hang on, baby girl. Dr. Crane’ll get you somethin’ in a second, let him fix himself.”

He hangs his coat over the side of the nearest couch - the one with the unidentifiable stains on the back (he thinks it might be bile) - and doesn’t bother to remove his shoes, only pulls his shirt from his trousers to reach under it and remove his folded up costume. It’s thrown onto the other sofa, which is missing half its stuffing and only has one seat intact, then he unbuttons his cuffs and rolls his sleeves to his elbows.

“Y’know, Bernie,” he says, as he undoes his tie and slides it off, “sometimes, I frighten even myself.” He lets a moment go by, then chuckles and shrugs. “Y’know - if I could! But, no, no fear fer Dr. Crane.”

Jonathan yawns as he walks into his kitchen, taking a plate already covered in cereal pieces from the kitchen table and moving it to the counter to top it off with some rice from a bag in the otherwise empty cupboard, then he carries it into the living room and places it upon the coffee table for Bernie, who immediately attacks it.

Jonathan smiles and sits upon the stained couch, watching her for a moment before he yawns again. His eyelids droop as he says, “You wanted rice instead, huh? Sorry, li’l girl. I’ll leave a selection next time.”

Bernie ignores the weird, lanky man’s speech in favour of eating, which is really nothing new.

Jonathan lets out another yawn, which he pays more attention to than the others, and removes his glasses and sets them on the table by Bernie’s plate. He brings his legs up and, still not bothering to remove his shoes, lays down upon the couch he sleeps on more than his own bed (which is nothing but a stained mattress on the floor upstairs, propped up with the remains of the bed frame). He gets comfortable, bending his legs so he’ll fit properly and laying on his side in the best position for him to fall asleep in. He rests one hand under his ear and uses the other to drag his coat down from its perch when he decides he’s cold. He uses that hand to flatten the coat out and drape it over himself, then he relaxes into the couch cushion and stares at the wall.

“…This was a good Halloween,” he decides aloud.

 _It was,_ Scarecrow agrees. _No Batman ta disturb us, child. No sudden trips to Arkham. Was a good Halloween. A perfect Halloween._

Jonathan has no mirror to check this in, but he gets the feeling Scarecrow would currently be stroking his hair, if Jonathan could see him.

_Yer a clever boy, Jonny. Gotham is screamin’ fer you, you little genius._

Jonathan nods and smiles widely, delighted with himself, even proud. He yawns again and feels exhaustion settle into his bones; he’s used so much effort over the last month and that’s finally paid off, so it’s time to rest.

As always, Jonathan will go into a sort of hibernation in November; he’ll recharge his batteries, recreate his toxin supply, formulate more plans, and then the Scarecrow will return in full. Batman won’t know what hit him.

Another yawn leaves him, then Jonathan settles down and shuts his eyes. “…G’night, Scarecrow.”

_Sleep well, child. Let Gotham’s screams be your lullaby._

Jonathan smirks, then looks to the mouse on his coffee table. “G’night, Bernie-girl. Don’t eat all o’ that…” he yawns once more, “…in one go.” He speaks the second half through the yawn, then shuts his eyes again and gets comfortable.

As Gotham continues to scream in terror in the distance, Jonathan Crane sleeps peacefully.

 


End file.
